Chapman, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) tragedy · Children of Paul's (second) · Paul's unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 458 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
I know not, if himself will vaunt t'have been The princely author of the slavish sin, Or any other; he would have resolved me, Had you not come; not by his word, but writing, Would I have sworn to give it him again, And pawned mine honour to him for a paper. See how he flies me still: 'tis a foul heart That fears his own hand: Good my Lord make haste To see the dangerous paper: Be not nice For any trifle, jeweled with your honour, To pawn your honour; and with it confer My nearest woman here, in all she knows; Who (if the sun or Cerberus could have seen Any stain in me) might as much as they: And Pero, here I charge thee by my love, And all proofs of it, (which I might call bounties) By all that thou hast seem seem good in me, And all the ill which thou shouldst spit from thee, By pity of the wound, my Lord hath given me, Not as thy Mistress now, but a poor woman (To death given over:) rid me of my pains, power on thy powder: clear thy breast of me: My Lord is only here: here speak thy worst, Thy best will do me mischief; If thou sparest me, Never shine good thought on thy memory: Resolve my Lord, and leave me desperate. My Lord? My Lord hath played a prodigals part, To break his Stock for nothing; and an insolent, To cut a Gordian when he could not lose it: What violence is this, to put true fire To a false train? To blow up long crowned peace With sudden outrage? and believe a man Sworn to the shame of women, 'gainst a woman, Borne to their honours: I'll attend your Lordship. No, I will write (for I shall never more Speak with the fugitive) where I will defy him, Were he ten times the brother of my king. Away, deliver it: O may my lines (Filled with the poison of a woman's hate When he shall open them) shrink up his eyes With torturous darkness, such as stands in hell, Stuck full of inward horrors, never lighted; With which are all things to be feared, affrighted; Father? How is it with my honoured mistress? O servant help, and save me from the gripes Of shame and infamy. What insensate stock, Or rude inanimate vapour without fashion, Durst take into his Epimethean breast A box of such plagues as the danger yields, incurred in this discovery? He had better Ventured his breast in the consuming reach Of the hot surfeits cast out of the clouds, Or stood the bullets that (to wreak the sky) The Cyclops ram in Ioues artillery.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I know not, if himselfe will vaunt t'haue beene The princely author of the slauish sinne, Or any other; he would haue resolu'd mee, Had you not come; not by his word, but writing, Would I haue sworne to giue it him againe, And pawn'd mine honour to him for a paper. See how he flies me still: Tis a foule heart That feares his owne hand: Good my Lord make haste To see the dangerous paper: Be not nice For any trifle, ieweld with your honour, To pawne your honor; and with it conferre My neerest woman heere, in all she knowes; Who (if the sunne or Cerberus could haue seene Anie staine in mee) might as much as they: And Pero, heere I charge thee by my loue, And all proofes of it, (which I might call bounties) By all that thou hast seeme seeme good in mee, And all the ill which thou shouldst spit from thee, By pity of the wound, my Lord hath giuen mee, Not as thy Mistresse now, but a poore woman (To death giuen ouer:) rid me of my paines, Powre on thy powder: cleere thy breast of me: My Lord is only heere: heere speake thy worst, Thy best will doe me mischiefe; If thou spar'st mee, Neuer shine good thought on thy memorie: Resolue my Lord, and leaue me desperate. My Lord? My Lord hath plaid a prodigals part, To breake his Stocke for nothing; and an insolent, To cut a Gordian when he could not loose it: What violence is this, to put true fire To a false traine? To blow vp long crown'd peace With sudden outrage? and beleeue a man Sworne to the shame of women, gainst a woman, Borne to their honours: Ile attend your Lordship. No, I will write (for I shall neuer more Speake with the fugitiue) where I will defie him, Were he ten times the brother of my king. Away, deliuer it: O may my lines (Fild with the poison of a womans hate When he shall open them) shrinke vp his eies With torturous darkenesse, such as stands in hell, Stucke full of inward horrors, neuer lighted; With which are all things to be fear'd, affrighted; Father? How is it with my honour'd mistresse? O seruant helpe, and saue me from the gripes Of shame and infamie. What insensate stocke, Or rude inanimate vapour without fashion, Durst take into his Epimethean breast A box of such plagues as the danger yeeldes, Incurd in this discouerie? He had better Ventur'd his breast in the consuming reach Of the hot surfets cast out of the cloudes, Or stoode the bullets that (to wreake the skie) The Cyclops ramme in Ioues artillerie.